Eye of the Equifade

by J A Stone

  Warfell and Fey looked to each other. Fey spoke first.

  “If we enter the city, we cannot be seen, just the knowledge of our presence may corrupt everything and cause the killer to flee. If any member of the Royal Court or even a soldier or stable boy aware of this envoy to Silvercrest goes flappin jaws, it could be a total loss, extending the case, and the killings for possibly months.” Danica was nodding agreement. She added her own comment.

  “And if her Father comes to us with a target, you need to know we are compelled to follow him and act accordingly, but he may agree to assist with your problem. On our off time we are free to pursue anything we wish—boss are you feeling skippy?”

  “Yeah,” British broke sight from her loyal friend and partner to look at the two Knights with her big brown eyes. “Okay men, let’s bring the gems with us back to Tibor—my partner knows what to do with them when we get there.”

  “Yes I do,” Warfell smiled at her boss. She knew of several orphanages in the Old City. “Gentlemen, we will suit up and meet you on the lawn.”

  “I thank you on behalf of my liege, his Lord…”

  “Hold!” British, “ten minutes, on the lawn, I gotta take a nice green steamy…”

  “Hold!” Warfell, “we get it boss.”

  It was a very long road from the southern town of Silvercrest to the northern Kingdom of Tibor but the girls packed light, knowing the royal procession would keep them fed and fetch supplies as they go.

  British chose a small double bladed, short handled axe that she picked up in Moor, leaving the Westbury Scimitar behind on a stand. She also borrowed a long Dirk from Warfell’s collection; it was almost a sword to the four-footer and she loved the weapon on first sight. Of course, the Blunderbuss found its position beneath her suede cape.

  Warfell’s bladed armament never changed. She needed little else and liked it that way. She did however; grab a leather pack with an assortment of investigative tools: a small cellular magnifier, hand-held night scopes, an ultra violet stone for blood, and the 10 shot Chesterborne she pried from a crazy-lady’s hand two missions prior. It was an older, rare model of the Chesterborne with a pearl-handled grip—the very gun that almost ended the unstoppable British Fey.

  She tossed in five extra clips and snapped the rucksack shut.

  Thaddeus was a handsome, rugged man. He looked around thirty to Danica; she was studying him as they rode. He had the telltale Tiborian blond hair, green eyes and fair skin. All natural, true citizens to the Crown had the hay-fair locks, bright greens and alabaster tone—the results of century’s old inbreeding to keep the Throne successions ‘pure’. His armor was chrome plate and sparkled in the sunlight as he rode. Dual Longswords hung crisscrossed on his back. As with the Master Knight, Thaddeus rode a dazzling white Snowhorse with a huge mane and feathered hooves.

  The Master Knight was not a handsome man at all, quite the contrary—he appeared almost albino were it not for the bright green eyes. His hair was shaved on the sides and long on top, giving him the look of an Equine’s mane. He wore a massive Greatsword at his side.

  Despite his station of honor, Danica did not like him—there was something about the man.

  Six hours into the fade, it began to rain hard, with no cover in sight. Everyone pulled cowls close and hoods low to brace against the onslaught; all that is but the two noble Knights and British Fey.

  Warfell noted the strange similarity in behavior and shook her head—nothing British did seemed to phase her anymore. She stopped herself and admonished her own thoughts: Think it, she’ll do it, say it and she’ll do something far worse than imaginable. Never think you have seen it all—ever.

  A day and a half of non-stop rain and the huge city of Moor finally loomed on the horizon. Warfell thought about Danton as soon as she saw the great walls. As though she could read her partner’s mind, British broke the silence.

  “We have a friend in Moor, a former cop, he’s good Thaddeus, we could use him on this if he’ll come.”

  Thaddeus looked to the Master Knight who in turn replied.

  “We will stop long enough to take a hot meal, shower, re-outfit and supply. If you need him, fetch him quickly.”

  Less than an hour later, Warfell burst through the twin doors of the newly refurbished Golden Goblet. She scanned the floor as she walked straight for Barnaby’s private room in the back.

  At that door, the fist paused when she heard someone moaning on the other side. Danica closed her blue eyes—she did not want to break in on a disgusting scene. She took a deep breath and drew back to knock, when…

  “What are you doing Danica?” it was Danton speaking in his perfect baritone voice. She whipped about with a smile.

  “Looking for you. Come with me now to Tibor. Do you have weapons?”

  “Always. What’s going on?” Danton furrowed his brows.

  “Oh, murder, mayhem, the usual. I need to borrow your detective brain, if you are not afraid to ride with me and British.”

  “Never—how much?” he asked, hoping it would be at least more than his lost wages from work.

  “More than you will make in three lifetimes, enough to buy the Golden Goblet and half this city.” Warfell was not kidding, she handed Danton a huge bag of precious jewels—a King’s fortune. He raised eyebrows.

  “Let me get my stuff. Is this a date?”

  “No.”

  “Can I say it’s a date?”

  “No,” Warfell grinned like a teenager, forgetting herself in the angst and opening the door in front of her to see an undulating blob of a man on top of a hopefully well-paid prostitute. She jerked her face to the side, erasing the scene from her mind, replacing it with the memory of a puppy she once saw, crushed by a wagon wheel. Yeah, it was that bad. She shouted to Barnaby, now frozen in place atop the poor woman.

  “TAKIN YOUR BOUNCER! I’ll bring him back alive, I promise,” she then closed the door and grabbed a mug from a moving tray as a server passed by—slugging the dark brew down—the bloody puppy was not working.

  Back on the northern road, the incessant rain finally began to lessen. Warfell, Fey and Danton rode behind the royal entourage and spoke in confidence.

  “They are dauntless I see,” Danton.

  “Their station calls for the utmost nobility and honor,” British.

  “Don’t get on a bad side either,” Danica warned. All three knew how well trained the Tiborian Knights were. Many would posit the Knights of the Northern Kingdom were the most dangerous men on the planet.

  “Has your Father visited this fade?” Danton asked.

  “No, which has me concerned,” British replied. “He’ll come—he always does.”

  The first deep night out of Moor, the travelers set camp and settled in for a rest, it would be another full day and night until the Towers of Tibor could be seen.

  Before a roaring fire, stuffing her face with deer meat, British asked Danton the question.

  “So, big man—just what are your intentions with my girl here.”

  Danton froze with a mouthful and then gulped the wad of meat down. “Nothing—we’ve gone out a couple of times. Danica belongs to no man,” he smiled at Warfell and she blushed.

  “Did you do it?” British almost whispered.

  “Boss!” Warfell responded, “That’s private and even if we did, what’s it to ya?”

  “Sorry—no disrespect,” British concluded and the three continued eating for a moment when Fey blurted out.

  “What’s his thing like?”

  “I’m gonna check the horses,” Danton rose to leave. Behind his back, Warfell brought both forefingers up, pulling them apart a foot’s length and the two girls laughed and giggled loudly. Danton swung back to look, they stopped and grinned at him like schoolchildren. British waived her hand enthusiastically and hyperventilated with a smile as if she was a smitten fan-girl, and Danton was a heartthrob.

  Warfell smacked British on the back of the head for the very first time. The little woman t
he size of a child stopped cold and turned to face her friend with eyebrows raised high. Danica jerked her head back like a curious wolf pricked by a porcupine.

  Danton shook his own head side to side and continued on to the tethered mounts. In the background, he heard British say ‘Seven Devils shut your mouth!’ then more giggling. Great, now he was a tool.

  That night beneath the stars, moons and Mighty Ana, British was having a nightmare.

  *

  A man was looking down on her. She could not move, something had happened to her and in the dream, British knew she was injured, badly. The man loomed closer; he was very handsome, young, maybe thirty. British noticed his eyes; they were warm, loving and a very bright green.

  He was there to rescue her! She relaxed and spoke. “Thank you, I can’t move.”

  “I got you—hold still, very still. It will be over soon you little raven haired bitch.” As soon as he spoke, British realized he was about to kill her. She screamed and a fist came down, a fist with a ring on the forefinger…a royal insignia…

  Suddenly, British was mounted and chasing a mad woman through the cobbled streets of Moor. The woman turned to face her with a wicked smile and fired. British hit the pavement over and over, feet stuck in the stirrups, tumbling and striking the rocks again and…

  *

  British bolted upright, body drenched in sweat, heart racing and pounding in her chest. The tent opening flew back and Warfell rushed to her partner’s side, Militia Sword out and gleaming in the poor light.

  “You okay boss?”

  “Yeah. I keep going back to the crazy lady in Moor,” British was gathering her calm, noticing her partner was almost naked. Warfell pulled cloth over an exposed breast and cleared her throat awkwardly.

  “What choo been doing?” British asked coyly. “Your hair is all messed up, you’ve been sweating –little late to be working out?”

  “Hey, use it or lose it, right? Tree climbers need to climb, and a race horse stabled is just a crime, you know?”

  “That was literally the worst set of analogies for boom-boom I have ever heard partner. Don’t quit your fade job.”

  Warfell smiled like a kid and returned to the next tent.

  Tibor, a vast and powerful territorial kingdom controlling the lands from the western deserts all the way north to the Polar Mountains. Eastern expansion was still in dispute and changing daily. A line due north of Moor to the pole was as far as Tibor dared—so far.

  The city was massive and spread out for miles straddling the White River. Poverty became widespread, which brought crime and violence, which in turn brought a governing body forced to rule with an iron fist. The poor were thus contained and controlled. You see, Tibor was a kingdom ruled by a singular variety of humana, the Pureblood Nobles who were easily distinguishable by the blond hair, green eyes and pale skin.

  In the beginning, the Nobles were simply preserving their bloodline, but as millennia passed, interest shifted to preserving the sub-race as a whole, leading towards exclusionism, isolationism—turning the White River black with blood.

  All peoples lived and proliferated in the Old City of Tibor, they were not a City of hatred, they simply granted true citizenship with all of its amenities and rights to Purebloods alone.

  They did not see themselves as a Kingdom, Nation or Country but rather a unified race—a distinct variety of the human species gathered or flocked together like penguins or flamingoes. Did they even possess that right? That premise has been debated for time untold, but as the city grew and more outsiders came in to work, live and raise families, the ruling body had to keep the peace without bringing the other kingdoms down atop of them.

  Therefore, they built a city within a city, raising the highest walls ever built by the hands of man at three hundred feet, and lifting the entire metropolis upon massive pillars five hundred feet above the ground. Towers were then erected, one reaching higher than the thousand foot mark, the Citadel of Atria, King of Tibor.

  True Towers was the name given the beautifully crafted, architectural masterpiece of engineering that housed the actual citizens of the Kingdom.

  From the outskirts, Tibor’s True Towers resembled a small white mountain in the middle of a city. In the deep of night it shined and sparkled, illuminating the metropolis surrounding it for miles, as a tall man with food, swarmed by a thousand starving children. Inside the isolated city, the citizens produced Tibor’s exports: jewelry, timepieces, lenses and guns, all hand made by the finest micro-craftsmen on the Moon. Tiborian scientists were leagues beyond the other nations, their Knights were unparalleled in prowess and their private city was a beauty to behold. As well, they bred the world renowned Tiborian Snowhorse, Aleutha’s largest and strongest breed; they were a bright, flawless white in color with thick feathering about the hooves and long white manes and tails. Fiercely loyal to the rider, the Snowhorse was coveted among the great nations of the planet and for good reason.

  The skies were clear on the second full day out of Moor. At twelve miles away, Warfell could see the True Towers. The road changed from dirt, brick and rock to a smoothly paved surface. Further ahead, the path forked—one, a road descending into the Old City, the other a bridge to the True Towers above. Warfell reined in Rarity. The Knights came to a stop.

  “We cannot enter on the royal highway Sir—it’s way too visual.”

  “She is correct. At the way gate, perhaps you could send us down into the Proper as though we were Ravens,” Danton spoke to the Knights for the first time, revealing to them his knowledge of the city by using local vernacular. Tibor Proper was a term used only by the poor. Raven was a term used only by the Purebloods to denote any variety of human with black hair. They paused, the Master Knight nodding.

  “I understand, but I am to bring you before Good King Atria,” he said.

  “Then haul us up in chains,” British supplied the solution.

  They did just that. Near the edge, Warfell studied the massive city beneath her. Tibor Proper was only poor in comparison to the lofty palaces above. In reality, it was an average city with working classes, middle classes, well to do and yes, slums. Indistinguishable from Moor or Oceanside, it was a place where people lived and thrived, worked and drank and all too often aimed to misbehave.

  The True Towers however, was an entirely different world. When they breeched the gate threshold, Warfell’s eyes went wide with wonder at the well-kept streets, beautiful buildings, and the Towers! Up close, Warfell felt the vertigo looking up and the tingle of fear with the knowledge that she was about to ascend the tallest one.

  “Please come forward,” the wise old man spoke. “British Fey and Danica Warfell, your reputations as hunters are becoming legendary. Many would posit you are the very epitome of evil—stalking human prey. Others uphold the justice you deliver in a world where the very idea is in peril of extinction.”

  Good King Atria was a kind Soul. He was a very large man, at least seven feet. Of course, he had bright green eyes and long, straight blond hair. Young for a King, maybe fifty, he was staring at the sky from a huge bay window at fifteen hundred feet. He continued without breaking his solemn gaze.

  “She was only seventeen, my Gwyneth. She was so beautiful,” he turned to face Warfell and Fey with tears in his eyes as they both genuflected and then took a knee in subjugation and respect.

  “Rise—you are my guests,” he walked over to the padded Throne and sat as though he were exhausted. “Can you, will you help us?” he asked as an equal and both warriors were moved.

  “Yes my Lord, we shall,” British said warmly.

  “With honor,” Warfell said immediately after.

  “Tell me what you need,” Atria leaned forward. British looked to her partner and Warfell began.

  “We need free roam of the True Towers. Our investigation will begin here and then follow to the city below. We will need to see the crime scenes and review any evidence you have collected. We need to confer with the lead Constables below as well
as here, witnesses to the actual scenes—all of them.”

  “Gunther,” the King motioned and a man came forward. “Son of my Number One, he has conducted the investigation to date—he’s a good man, you can trust him as your liaison.”

  “There is something else you must know my Lord,” British said, “if we begin here in your house and find something or someone right beneath your feet—reaction must be swift. When we place hands to pommel, things may not go as you or anyone else may believe at this time.”

  A direct threat. British knew the ramifications of shooting up the Tower of Atria, but it was a point that needed to be made. Once a target is acquired, regardless of location, things happen fast.

  The King held a fist to his jaw, resting his head, studying the tall woman and the beautiful, very small woman—what an odd pair they were.

  “I understand. I also know you cannot bring my Daughter back. I want this monster stopped. I want its head right here in front of me, even if that head is my own Mother’s.” The surrounding Court gasped and murmured amongst themselves. The King held a palm to silence them. “Will the Aequitas Caelum grant me an audience? I knew him when he was…he was a very wise man young British, you favor him when you speak,” he smiled past his sadness.

  “It is only two hours until the fade my Lord. I hope and pray that he comes. I believe in my heart that my Father shall champion your cause. If my Lord wishes, I will remain behind as you hold council. He has become reluctant to face governmental bodies and for this I apologize.”

  “Fair enough,” the King reclined, satisfied. Warfell took a deep breath and spoke in a loud commanding tone to the assembled Royal Court.

  “Bar the doors now. NO ONE LEAVES until I, Danton or British have spoken to them personally.” She looked to a motionless guard and then to the King.